


easier said

by dictura



Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: F/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25456522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dictura/pseuds/dictura
Summary: Jacob tries to let go of Bella. Second-person POV. Unrequited love circa New Moon.
Relationships: Jacob Black/Bella Swan
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	easier said

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Very Old work of mine but Midnight Sun is coming, so hey, let's renew our commitment to going down with this ship.

It’s easier said. Goodbye is easy. Goodbye is everyday, routine and we say it, over and again. Maybe not that, exactly. But _see you later_ and _until then_ and _take care_.

Goodnight. Love you.

You try to mean goodbye to her on a Sunday. It’s no different than any other, although days with her can be better or worse. Today she is measuring her responses to you like she measures while cooking: cups and spoons and oven timers and you realize that she’s taking more care with you than you are. That she knows all the things you really mean. And sometimes you want to tease her, ask if she really thinks she’s going to screw it up ( _there are things you’re good at, Bella_ ) because she’s done it a thousand times and shouldn’t she just know by now? Shouldn’t you know by now?

And sometimes you say the exact right thing at the right time (a grain of salt) and she laughs and it could mean _anything._

(Everything she cooks comes out perfect but the problem, your mother would’ve said, is that there’s no _love_ in it.)

When you say goodbye to her that day, you weigh it across your tongue, measure it in syllables. But she doesn’t seem to notice. She smiles as she walks away.

* * *

You stay home sick on Monday. You try to mean goodbye in every corner of your room. (You eat her leftover spaghetti in the fridge. Just to get rid of it.)

It’s about time. You’re getting taller and older and the car is almost done. It’s time to be finished with all the repairs. And girls at school are starting to look at you like there’s something you have that they want and you don’t know what she wants from you (shouldn’t she know by now?). Soon you’ll be able to drive.

You wonder what he was really like.

Everyone says they were rich. Maybe that’s it. She might not think that’s something you have to offer and she’s right: you don’t. But it’s not like you don’t have Plans. You were going to get out of this stupid state and move somewhere that _never fucking rains_ and you were going to maybe go to school, like to learn to design cars—or she might laugh but actually you really would love to be a pit stop mechanic and NASCAR is big where it’s sunny. Only you were going to take Billy because he needs you, because you know what it’s like to be left behind, because the council doesn’t do anything but make him spew crazy anyway, and because you’re not like _them_. You take care of the people you love.

And she could come. She’s smart. She could go to school anywhere and you’d pick a place near the best English program because pretty much all she can still look at are her books. (You know how much she misses Phoenix. You were going to invite her with a brand new cactus.)

But that’s not part of the Plan anymore because of goodbye and so you can choose wherever. Except Arizona. And Florida.

So he’s good-looking, okay. If you like someone that pale in the face. Grimacing, you realize it’s ridiculous to criticize tastes that run the same as yours. All right. But that hair. It’s like a neon sign if Vegas lights wore too much gel. You look at yourself. Long black silk flat down your back. Maybe it’s too "pretty." (Embry says so.) Maybe she thinks that even when she says she likes it. _Sort of beautiful._ Maybe that’s not what you should be, to her.

You wonder if she’s even thought about what she’s going to do when he doesn’t come back. She’s spending her college fund on this. You’re too afraid to ask about it because if you guilt her then she’ll stop coming around and she needs this. (Needs you.)

(The way she wraps her arms around herself and her eyes go blank—you think of that and it’s hard to remember goodbye.)

You’re getting tall. Too tall. Taller than him, and she’s short. Maybe she doesn’t like that. Wouldn’t be able to reach you. (But you’re always _right here_ and he’s—) Maybe she would like you better if you bleached your hair and stopped growing and got weird gold contacts and always stayed out of the sunshine, and maybe you should sell the Rabbit and buy something bland and new and then you could drive really far away and maybe, maybe then she might like you better. Miss you.

You could not be less like him.

She calls to ask you to a movie with her friends. You swallow hard and say yes.


End file.
